Single (ARC) Page 6

  I remember there was this one particular time, just a few days before he slipped away, when he got the intense look again and gripped my shoulders as he spoke.

  ‘We all make decisions we regret, don’t we?’

  I hadn’t a clue what he was on about at the time, but when I thought about it afterwards, there seemed to be a recurring theme about regrets and a life lived carelessly.

  He was feeling so ill, and so I just made all the right noises to try and reassure him.

  ‘Of course everyone makes mistakes, Joel. Don’t beat yourself up; you’ve always done the right thing by us, your family, you’ve nothing to—’

  ‘Darcy… just listen. Please,’ he’d interrupted me, tightening his grip on my shoulders. ‘We live our lives like there’s always plenty of time to set everything straight, and then the time runs out and it’s too late. It’s just too late to make it right again.’

  His voice broke and his hands fell away from me. He sank back into the pillows and closed his eyes, looking grey and beaten.

  ‘Hey!’ I wrapped my arms around him, buried my face in his neck. ‘Stop! It’s happy memories we need to talk about, not regrets. Deal?’

  He nodded, but seemed subdued after that, not wanting to chat much. That suited me fine. I was crumbling on the inside, and every day it was harder to keep it all together for him and the boys.

  I never thought anything of that particular conversation. Until after he’d gone.

  Then when the life I thought we’d had flipped onto its ugly side, it was all I could think about.

  It started when I arrived to visit Joel during one of his last hospital stays, just a week before he died.

  I stepped into his room and saw, with disappointment, that he was fast asleep.

  ‘You might not get much out of him today, I’m afraid.’ The nurse scribbled something on his chart and hooked it back on the end of the bed, popping her pencil into her pocket. ‘His last visitor stayed longer than usual. He’s really worn out.’

  I frowned. We all had our regular visiting times. Steph called in late morning; Brenda and Leonard did the evening shift and often took the boys with them. I always popped in after my afternoon yoga class and left in time to pick Harrison up from school and Kane from nursery.

  Our routine gave Joel plenty of time for a nap after lunch.

  ‘Who was visiting? Was it Stephanie, his sister?’

  The nurse shook her head.

  ‘Don’t think so. There’s been a lady coming to see Joel in the afternoons for the last couple of days.’ Her eyes flicked towards me, away again. ‘Her name is…’ She consulted her notes. ‘Daniela Frost.’

  I frowned. ‘I don’t recognise the name. I expect it’s one of his colleagues.’

  Joel had always talked to me a lot about his work as a Microsoft IT consultant, travelling the country troubleshooting software problems for big corporations. He’d never mentioned anyone of that name. He didn’t interact with colleagues in the way most other people did, because he hadn’t got an office base, but I knew the names of a handful of people he was in regular contact with at the company’s HQ.

  Once the nurse had left, I sat down beside Joel’s bed. There was a packet of Fisherman’s Friend lozenges on his over-bed table – our in-joke, because I detested the strong menthol smell on his breath and refused to buy them – and the latest edition of his favourite mountain-biking magazine. He hadn’t been in a fit state to go on one of his favoured thirty-mile cycle rides for at least six months.

  He’d received his first diagnosis of the condition when Harrison was just two years old. He’d kept it a secret for a week or so. I was furious he’d gone through it all alone, never told me about the appointment with the consultant that had followed several doctor’s appointments and blood tests, none of which I’d known about.

  Of course, I knew he’d been feeling under the weather. He’d been sweating buckets in the middle of the night in the winter and had been picking up every minor infection going. We’d just put it down to him being a bit run-down.

  ‘Get yourself checked out at the doctor’s,’ I’d told him on several occasions, but he’d waved my concern away. Or had appeared to. Evidently he had made an appointment and the doctor had carried out some tests.

  He sat me down one night when Harrison had gone to bed. Told me about the diagnosis.

  ‘It’s not as bad as it sounds.’ His voice was confident but his face looked pale and drawn, the tiny lines at the edges of his eyes seeming to be etched deeper than ever. ‘People live years with it, apparently. Plus, I’m young and strong, and that can only be a good thing.’

  He talked about treatment options and how the condition could be managed, and by the end of it, I felt reassured that things might not be as bad as they had first seemed.

  Joel was always so skilled at convincing me, I realise now. Or was it that I was just incredibly naïve?

  Anyway, that day in his hospital room, there was a glass of water on the side with a small half-moon of pale pink lipstick imprinted on the edge. I held it up to the window, studied the tiny crinkly lines in the sticky gloss.

  I read somewhere that everyone’s lip print is unique, just like a fingerprint.

  I replaced the glass and stared at Joel’s face. He looked chronically pale by then and had lost another ten pounds in the past two weeks, but he was still devilishly handsome. The sharp, defined edge of his jaw and his high cheekbones suddenly looked more pronounced, like when we first met.

  I glanced away. Couldn’t bring myself to think about the horror of what was happening inside him.

  His eyelids fluttered periodically, the left-hand side of his full lips twitching every few seconds. I wondered what – or whom – he might be dreaming about.

  Me, perhaps? Or our boys?

  Looking back, that’s the moment it started, I think. My need to know more about her.

  While the love of my life slept, I took his phone out of the cupboard next to his bed and searched his emails, and then his Facebook friends list, for a Daniela Frost. There was nobody of that name. I opened Messenger and considered the scant list of communications there. Nothing.

  On my own phone, I searched the name generally on Facebook, and a list of relevant profiles popped up. I quickly scrolled down but didn’t recognise any of the photographs there – but then why would I? I didn’t know anyone of that name.

  I remember Joel woke up abruptly then, feeling sick. I called for the nurse and pushed everything else out of my mind.

  I told myself that if a female colleague or friend I didn’t know about had called in to visit, what did it really matter in the scheme of things?

  Just two weeks later, we were holding Joel’s funeral. His parents had insisted on organising everything, wouldn’t hear of me worrying about a thing. Even though they didn’t live that far away, I didn’t see much of them as Joel mostly took the boys over there for Sunday football matches. I remember thinking how sweet and caring it was of them to want to protect me from the pain of organising the funeral.

  It was a blustery day. Sooty clouds buffeted angrily across the sky, obliterating any chance of the sun breaking through. It was a day when it was all I could do to hold myself together. Everything else became irrelevant.

  I had this sense of my life unravelling, spiralling out of control. It had happened so fast: after his initial diagnosis four years ago, there was just six months between Joel becoming desperately ill and then dying.

  It was hard to even breathe and Brenda urged me not to go to the funeral.

  ‘You’ll end up making yourself ill and the boys need you,’ she’d said.

  I’d spent my time as a mother reassuring my boys that they were safe and surrounded by the love of their family. How then could I explain this, the death of their beloved father?

  I tried, I really did try. But none of what I said made sense to them or to me.

  In the end, the greatest comfort came from us just holding each other and cryin
g out the grief-laden tears. In the end, there was no need for words at all.

  Now, as the bus rattles over the speed bumps on the road, I rub at my damp eyes, refocusing as the streets become familiar. This is what happens if I don’t keep my wits about me; I drift back into the past without even noticing.

  I don’t want to revisit the time after Joel died, not right now. I still can’t believe I came out the other side. There were many times I got so low, I thought life was over for me.

  The strange thing is, Kane’s emergency at the play park, my thankfulness that George stepped in… somehow, it’s shaken my life up a bit. I’d been just ticking along, every day very similar and uneventful. And that was fine. But suddenly, I feel a sense of opportunity that’s telling me, maybe, just maybe, I’m ready to move on with my life. Baby steps, that’s all.

  A few minutes later, when I step off the bus, my phone chimes to announce an incoming text message. I pull it out of my handbag to find a notification from an unknown number. When I tap on it, the text message loads.

  Hi Darcy, thanks for the card. Are you free for a quick chat if I call you about 4 p.m.? George M.

  Twelve

  At 3.55 p.m., I’m pacing around the kitchen like a deranged lion.

  The boys are still at Brenda and Leonard’s and won’t be home until after five. My phone sits on the counter, silent and still. I feel like a kid playing the card game snap again. Waiting for the two matching cards to appear, every muscle tense and sprung.

  Even though I know the phone is going to ring imminently, I’m like a jack-in-the-box, ready to jump through the roof when I hear the sound.

  A chat sounded lovely when I first read his message, but now I can’t stop ruminating about what George might be calling to say. In my mind, I’ve already been through hundreds of possible scenarios, most of them negative.

  Maybe he wants to tell me how kind it was of me to invite him out for a coffee before letting me down gently, explaining that he has a wife, a girlfriend, or he’s married to his work, or he’s gay. I have to face it: he might have saved my son’s life but that doesn’t mean he wants to see me again, or even talk about it.

  Luckily, I have a contingency plan.

  I’ll explain that the card I left was simply a polite invitation to thank him and there are absolutely no strings attached. At all. Certainly no romantic expectation. I’ll laugh as I say it.

  George is an attractive man, a surgeon who saves lives on a daily basis. He’s probably used to women fawning all over him, and he may naturally assume I’m doing the same.

  He wasn’t wearing a wedding band, but then that doesn’t really mean anything. Yes, I’m single, and I haven’t felt that flutter in my belly since I first met Joel in that out-of-town pub all those years ago… but that’s irrelevant, because all I’m offering is to buy him a coffee, for goodness’ sake!

  The dishwasher beeps and I fling open the door too early, hauling out the still-steaming clean dishes onto the worktop and smarting with each scalding touch.

  The clink of the cutlery and the clatter of the crockery helps drown out the little voice of my conscience, which is trying to put forward an alternative truth in my head about my real motives.

  A vibrating hum suddenly fills the kitchen, swiftly followed by a delicate tinkling sound.

  I let out a little shriek as the Orla Kiely mug I’m holding slips from my hand and hits the kitchen counter, the handle breaking clean off.

  I leave it where it lands and rush over to my phone. The screen is lit with the same unknown number as before.

  I flick my fringe out of my eyes and paste a smile to my face.

  ‘Hello?’ I sing out brightly.

  ‘Hello, Darcy? It’s George Mortimer here.’

  His deep, masterful voice resonates down the line, sending a shiver across the back of my neck.

  ‘George! Thanks for calling!’ I don’t pause to allow him to refuse my offer of coffee and cake. ‘I just wondered if you’d like to meet for a coffee. I just wanted to say thank you again… That was it really, nothing more!’

  I clamp my mouth shut and press my fingernails into the soft pad of the palm of my free hand, in an effort to calm myself down, get a handle on things. I’m trying to compensate by being too jolly and upbeat, and it’s just making me feel ten times worse, plus I sound like an idiot.

  ‘That’s very kind of you. But as I said before, there’s no need to keep thanking me. It’s no more than any other medic would have done if they’d been there.’ His words are unrushed, understated. His tone is kind and I feel my throat relax a touch. ‘How is Kane feeling now?’

  ‘He’s fine!’ I pause and drag in a breath, and my voice drops an octave. ‘He’s fine. You’d never guess what he’d been through, looking at him scooting around today.’

  ‘Isn’t that always the way with kids?’ George chuckles. ‘Trouble is like water off a duck’s back to them.’

  ‘I hope it was OK,’ I venture awkwardly. ‘Bringing the card into your department, I mean.’

  ‘Of course, it was a lovely thought.’ He pauses a moment, and I brace myself for the inevitable but. I swear my heart is banging so hard on the wall of my chest I feel certain he must be able to hear it. ‘And if the offer’s still there, I’m calling to say that I’d love to grab a coffee with you. Maybe even a slice of cake, if my waistband allows it.’

  ‘Of course!’ I recall his taut, fit physique and laugh, ridiculously relieved, and exhilarated that he’s accepted my offer.

  Then, to my surprise, he suggests we meet at six o’clock today.

  I hesitate. I know Brenda is planning to bring the boys back around 5.30, but I’m sure she won’t mind keeping them a bit later.

  George fills my silence. ‘Totally understand if it’s too short notice for you; it just happens to be one of those rare days when I’ve actually got home early. But if you’d rather rearrange, that’s—’

  ‘No, no,’ I interrupt him. ‘Six o’clock is fine.’

  We arrange to meet at Bru, a small upmarket coffee shop in nearby West Bridgford that I know specialises in fair-trade coffee and home-made cakes to die for.

  By the time I get off the phone and call Brenda – who is more than happy to bring the boys back at 7.30, although I don’t tell her why – I’ve only left myself forty minutes to shower and dress before I need to leave the house.

  I decide I haven’t got time to wash and style my hair, so I pin it up in a French roll and leave a few wisps each side that I curl with the tongs.

  Sitting in my underwear – my only remaining matching set now – I apply a tinted moisturiser and just use mascara and a bit of pencil eyeliner. The last thing I want is for George to think I’m making a big deal out of meeting up. Because I’m really not. There’s no expectation on my part at all.

  I apply a nude lipstick and dab a bit of pink on top, so I don’t look too washed out.

  ‘You’ll do,’ I say out loud after studying my reflection in the dressing table mirror.

  It’s been a long time since I’ve applied even a small amount of make-up, so I’m pleasantly surprised when I find I look much brighter wearing it. More like my old self.

  I’m wary of overdressing, so just pull on some black jeggings, black patent ankle boots with a low blocky heel, and a fluffy pink sweater I got last month in the Zara sale. After I slip on my short belted black wool coat and a stripy hand-knitted scarf Brenda gave me last Christmas, I’m good to go.

  I decide to take the bus as that removes the nightmare parking situation in town. I try and listen to a bit of my audiobook, but the noise in my head drowns out everything that comes through the earbuds. I rewind to the beginning of the chapter three times and then give up.

  I’m going for coffee with a man. A very attractive man.

  I don’t even want to think about what Joel’s family would say to that, if they knew. Luckily, they don’t know.

  And I’ve got no intention of telling them.

  Thirteen


  I step off the bus and fill my lungs with cold air before setting off on the five-minute walk to Bru. Despite the chill, I feel clammy underneath my clothes and my mouth is dry. I’m so out of practice at meeting new people.

  It’s going to be fine. It’s just a coffee, a chat and another thank-you from me. That’s all there is to it.

  I’m a few minutes early. I push open the door to the café and inhale the intense smell of coffee. Inside, it’s quite small and dim, but I count four customers, all looking at their phones. Bare light bulbs glare starkly from small steel cages suspended above the reclaimed wood tabletops. Industrial pipework snakes around the edges of the walls and ceiling. It’s all very trendy and on point.

  George hasn’t arrived yet, so I take a table towards the rear of the room without ordering. I haven’t a clue what he’ll want.

  I’ve literally just slipped off my coat, frowning when I see that pink fluff from my sweater has transferred to my black leggings, when the door opens and in he walks.

  He looks dashing, hair slightly damp from the rain, a casual navy Gant jacket worn over his well-cut suit. He runs his hand through his hair and smiles easily when he sees me.

  I paste a smile to my own face and hope it doesn’t look too forced. I feel… out of practice in meeting someone like this. A man.

  All my old insecurities from when I was ill have been beaten back with my therapy stick but I can still feel them there, waiting in the wings. Biding their time for me to make a mess of things.

  ‘I’m not late, am I?’ He checks his watch. ‘Had to park a few streets away.’

  ‘No, no. I got here a few minutes early.’ I stand up, brushing tiny strands of static fluff off my leggings and see my phone has lit up on the table with a couple of notifications. ‘What can I get you?’

  ‘Let’s see.’ He turns towards the counter. ‘I’ll just have a regular latte, and you can surprise me with the cake.’